


shamelessly pilfered from the Captain and Tenille

by oonaseckar



Category: Frasier (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 80's Music, 90's Music, DJ Derek Hale, F/M, Gen, Hospital Radio, Hospitals, Illnesses, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Music, Musical References, Musicians, Psychotherapy, Therapy, Volunteer Work, candystriper, deejay!Derek, dj!derek, hospital radio DJ, hospital volunteer, music-loving!Derek, musical!Derek, volunteer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22240621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oonaseckar/pseuds/oonaseckar
Summary: Derek is up to something.  He's dressing smart, sneaking around.Is Stiles just gonna take that lying down, and not play the boy detective?  Well, whaddya think?
Relationships: Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall, Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	1. the kind of face you don't get tired of

**Author's Note:**

> Work title from Frasier - 'love will keep us together' and all that.  
> Chapter title from 101 Dalmatians.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is being weird, lately. Stiles thinks so. More weird than usual, he means.

Derek's up to something. Stiles knows this, he just doesn't know _what_ , exactly. Not yet. But he _is_ the boy detective, so it's not like he's not going to ferret it out. Derek keeps re-scheduling pack meetings. And then being a little late for the re-scheduled meetings. And being distracted, and a little pink in the cheeks when he deigns to turn up.

Happy. He looks _happy_ , when he finally deigns to show his face. Well, nearly. As close to happy as Derek generally gets.

“What's going on?” Stiles asks suspiciously, slumped back into the collapsed old couch in Scott's basement, feet up on the recycled sidewalk coffeetable. Derek's light on his feet as he throws his jacket off, drags a busted swivel chair over to join the rest of them. He's wearing a dress shirt underneath. A _nice_ dress shirt.

He's always graceful. Even with a furry hide, ripping something's throat out. But it looks almost like he's repressing dance moves, the way he sways now. Like he's been watching Fred Astaire on oldies channels, tipping his top hat.

“Is that a smile?” Stiles demands, now. “Are you _smiling_ , Derek? How is this happening? Isn't it against local regulations and ordinances? What the hell?”

At least the accusation puts a slightly peevish look back on ol' Sour-Wolf's face. The world's set aright again, polarity restored. “What if I was?” he asks, now. “No, there's actually no law against it, Stiles.”

“Maybe,” Stiles counters. “Unless you count common usage and common law, and we don't commonly see a lot of those _dimples_ round these parts. What's brought this on, wolfy? What are you up to? And where _are_ you all the time, these days, anyhow? You're always late. And changing meeting times. And... I don't know. _Elsewhere_. Not checking in. Doing things not involving monsters and wolves and... us. Saying it again, big man: what's happening?”

“My _life_ , that's what's happening, Stiles,” Derek retorts, to that. He shoves his way onto the couch, and Stiles makes way, because who's gonna argue with a were-gorilla? “It's called having a life? And I am currently conducting experiments. In doing that. There's more to life than being a wolf, and chasing monsters every full moon. Take it from me.”

It's a smartass reply that tells Stiles nothing. It's like _he's_ his Dad, and Derek is _him_ , suddenly. Stiles doesn't like it. He's gonna let his dad have burgers and fries this weekend, to make up a little, for being Stiles. Now he's on the receiving end, he can sympathize.

“Are you getting some?” Stiles asks suspiciously, the third time this happens. Maybe if he had any subtlety, he'd hint around some before coming straight out with it, or investigate behind the scenes and see what intel he can dig up. But subtlety is for people who haven't had a pixy infestation, a time-traveling dinosaur and an alien whistle-stop visit in Beacon Hills in the last month. People who might not be dead within the week, who have the luxury of that kind of relaxed approach. “Hey, is Derek getting some, and people just forgot to keep me informed?” he demands, standing and turning around to glare at the assembled company of wolves and co-travellers, in Derek's basement. "Like Marx had it right about the eventual triumph of the collective and the inevitability of a workers' paradise, and no-one's acting like this is headline news?”

All he gets out of these losers is an insolently raised eyebrow from Jackson, and a quick snap of gum and wink from Scott, before he turns back to Kira and makes with the kissy-kissy that's making the rest of them so uncomfortable. So he swivels back around, to annoy Derek some more instead. But Derek's ahead of him, pretending to be absorbed in Lydia's college essay on lupine mythology. With his intellectual glasses, the ones that are so damn hot they silence Stiles, reliably. Every time.

When the order of business for the day has been run through, and they've been assigned individual responsibilities (suspected ghosts, dancing pitchforks, sending Jackson off to buy exquisite foofoo little silver cake-forks for Lydia's twenty-first later in the month), everyone fucks off. They're all adult, or close enough: Scott in his second year of vet school, Stiles working with his dad, everyone else busy being impressive academic stars. As well as battling demons, as a side-gig. They have other places to be. Life isn't all about the pack and monsters, anymore.


	2. 'busy' is another word for 'asshole'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WHAT THE HELL IS DEREK UP TO?
> 
> Uh-oh. Stiles thinks he knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Greg Behrendt.

But Stile's not moving his ass, still lounging on the couch. And as Scott grabs his bag and makes a move, Stiles grabs his hand and pulls him back, yanking hard enough so that Scott falls on his ass on the couch too. The rest of the gang of adventurers and monster-slayers –- and monsters –- are hi-tailing it out, Jackson the last one zipping it up the basement stairs. He's looking like he dressed for a date and was just checking in, a road-bump in his evening. But Scott's trapped and detained, for a cosy chat.

And he looks apprehensive, as well he might. “Aw _fuck_ it, Stiles,” he moans. “ _Don't_ tell me there're _special secret monsters,_ that are too bad-ass for the general meeting. I've got a date with Kira. I've got better things to do than getting mauled, this evening. My mom won't like it. You wouldn't want my mom to be unhappy, would you?” He pouts, like the puppy he still is, really.

“No. Yeah, yeah. Look,” Stiles hisses –- confidentially, fuck knows why since they're the only ones left. “Does Derek seem _weird_ , lately, to you?”

Scott has to process, so Stiles gives him a minute. “ _Extra_ weird?” he asks then, scrunching up his face and making it wonkier than ever, as he seeks clarification.

“Yeah,” Stiles says impatiently. “Beyond the usual. Like... he's always late for pack meets, these days. Normally he's the one busting our chops for it, but now _he's_ the one. And you know what, that isn't all. Have you been checking his moods lately, ole _manic-depressive bipolar violent outbursts-wolf?_ He seems –- almost _happy_. And Scott, you know _that_ ain't right. It transgresses all natural laws of God and man. Derek happy? It's _against nature._ And he's dressing nicer. Well, there's still the jacket, but nicer than...”

And then he gets carried off on a train of thought, ambushed by a passing clue, every bit the boy Sherlock. “Scott,” he says, pretty mouth pursed up. “Is Derek _getting some?_ Is that why he's suddenly a little ray of fucking sunshine –- comparatively? Dressing better, having better things to do than hang with a bunch of post-teenagers, being a smart-ass as if he's suddenly developed a sense of humor? Is he –- I know it's been a long time since he was getting it on with a Darach and how that all turned out, but –- do you think–-“

This is where he turns to Scott, who ought to fulfill his duty as a fellow supernatural Hardy boy, and join in the wonder and the horror. They ought to be staring at each other, mouths open, appalled, as the full terrible truth dawns on 'em. But he can't, because Scott's taken his chance and slipped away while Stiles was deep in thought. He's got his foot on the first step of the basement stairs, and he just grins as Stiles flails out his arms in protest.

“Where are you going?” Stiles moans. “We need to talk this over! We need to ferret out what wolf-boy is up to, and –- and keep an eye on it. There could be developments –- _sinister_ developments. Anything could happen!” He gives Scott his best angst-face. Considering everything they've been through over the past few years, he flatters himself that he gives pretty good angst-face.

But Scott just laughs, and keeps going. “Like what?” he throws over his shoulder, grinning at Stiles without pity or mercy. “Like you say, Derek getting some? Would that be so bad, Stiles? I mean, as long as he doesn't pick another Darach or insane wolf-hunter, if he's gonna do it."

“MY POINT EXACTLY!” Stiles thunders, falling off the sofa with his vehemence. He could go on, there's plenty to say about all of the mythical sinister horrifying beasts that Derek could unwittingly hook up with. Going on past form, it's not as if he's likely to choose anyone nice and normal. When has anything about Derek's life ever been normal? (Or nice.)

But he doesn't get to it. Scott has paused halfway up the stairs, half turning back. And why wouldn't he? Stiles has raised an excellent point, one that requires immediate urgent action and intervention for the sake of the pack, and that's why he opens his mouth and says...


	3. in another city

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sudden emergency brings out the best in Stiles. And it certainly allows Derek some private life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from George Burns.

“Oh, come off it, Stiles. You know you're just _jealous_. And so does the whole pack. Is it such a bad thing, if Derek's love-life actually experiences an uptick, he stops playing _Leonard Cohen_ and _the Smiths_ and reading _Sylvia Plath?_ Hey, you should have got in there while he was still free and single! Probably too late now!” And then, the heartless fucker lifts a hand for a cheery wave, and carries on mountaineering up the rest of the stairs. A bang of the basement door, and that's him gone.

And Stiles, last remnant of the pack meeting –- the only one, it seems, still really dedicated to the pursuit of supernatural creatures, and hanging on to adolescent dynamics and adventure with a grim tenacity –- is left all alone. Just him, not being jealous. Nope. Not at all.

xxx

Anyhow. As if _that_ has anything to do with anything. What Stiles does _not_ do, for the rest of the week, and waiting until the next pack meeting with bitten fingernails, is to go off on his own, trailing Derek and sussing out what the hell he's doing. And _who_.

Maybe he would have done, if he had a sidekick to scope out Derek's activities with him, hide behind parked cars with, exchange unreadable notes. But since Scott is apparently _too adult_ for that sort of thing anymore –- _hah_ –- then, well. It's a little bit sad, doing that sort of thing by yourself. And it might make _him_ sad. He's apprehensive about what he might actually find out.

It isn't as if he doesn't have plenty to do, without extra supernatural duties. As his dad's deputy, rescuing cats from trees, assisting old Mr Bernick home from the corner bar when he's completely blasted, and scrapping tickets for minor parking offences takes up at least, ooh, a quarter of his time. Plus there's still some trouble with the immigrant Japanese river-otters at the edge of the county line. Not that they're causing any trouble, there's just a few hate-crimes and anti-immigrant demonstrations by the native supernatural creatures that he has to quiet down and give a few talkings-to over.

So he's occupied enough, and... He doesn't think about it all the time. He isn't _consumed by jealousy_ , no matter what Scott says. Not _consumed_.

He's left that behind a while back, grown up, moved on. Mostly.

So it really helps to clear his mind, on the Wednesday, when his Dad gets shot on the job. Very thoughtful of him, Stiles thinks. Well, that's what he thinks, when he isn't busy screaming down the phone at Parrish. “He's – what? What? Where is he? Is he okay? What hospital have they taken him to? Why didn't you take better care of him! You asshole, I only have _one_ parent left, if he dies I will be hunting you down and borrowing a crossbow off of Allison to do it!”

And then, when he calms down about a quarter of the way. At least, once he's established that a) his Dad is going to be _fine_ and b) a very snippy Parrish is in no way responsible. “I can't be everywhere at once, Stiles. What was I supposed to do? I was the one taking details of a mugging from a couple of college students at the diner, I had my hands full. How was I supposed to stop your Dad from getting a cone from the ice-cream parlor over the road? If he chose the exact moment it was getting robbed, well, what's that got to do with–-“

That's all the explanation Stiles needs. Flesh wounds, _baddies_ , grazes, what do these count for? At least, when set up against a choc-chip cone, with hot sauce and extra sprinkles. The devious _asshole_. He needs to check that the only parent he's ever going to have again is okay, first. But then, there are going to be _words_.


	4. when it hits you, you feel no pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sheriff, in the hospital. And _not_ because of his cheeseburger addiction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Bob Marley.

Stiles' Dad is sick -- injured -- and Stiles is a little bit frantic, and he's refusing to cop to it. All about par for the course. All these years he's been giving dire warnings about the Sheriff's fondness for doughnuts and fries –- curly or otherwise –- and red meat, but he never _really_ thought this day would come. He thought they'd be _fine_ , what with all the prescriptive diets and prophylactic action he was enforcing. (Heh, _prophylactics_. Even at a moment like this...) Now, they're breaking a few local by-laws on the way to the hospital, him and Scott, after Stiles getting the call at the sheriff's office.

“He'll be fine,” Stiles says, but his hands are white-knuckled where he's gripping on to the safety handle, just for the sake of something to grip on. (And also Scott is going unreasonably fast in Stiles' Jeep, although they decided he'd better drive because Stiles was too hepped-up and adrenalized. Because the nurse who called –- a buddy of Melissa's –- was quite clear that there was no emergency, just a little 'incident'. Something has happened in the course of John Stilinski's performance of his duties, and they'd better 'keep an eye on it'. But it relieves both their feelings: break a few traffic laws, pull strings with the local traffic cops, get out of a few tickets, feel like they're actually _doing_ something. Making a statement: the Sheriff's son and practically adoptive-son, riding to the rescue!) “It's nothing. Millie said it was nothing. And I would have been fine to drive. _Fine_.”

“Sure you would, Stiles,” Scott reassures him, blinking in his direction briefly, as he swerves in to park in the staff section of the hospital car park. Burning squealing rubber like he's Hutch to Stiles' Starsky. (They've argued it out often enough that it's established. Stiles is _Starsky_. Whatever he has to say about it.) “But you know I get to drive the jeep on days when.. well, I'm drivin' And we're here, anyway.” (Stiles would not have been okay to drive. Scott isn't saying he was _actually_ crying when Scott got the call. He's a good bro, metaphorical and almost-actually. And he doesn't want a smack in the mouth: the doctors and nurses have enough to deal with, looking after Stiles' Dad. Possibly, eventually, his own step-dad, in a couple of years.)

Stiles is heading straight for the emergency room open doors, the biggest and closest point of access in sight, the minute his feet hit tarmac. But Scott's attention gets snagged on the way, because that? What's that, over in the corner of the car park?

And even though Stiles is hauling ass, his attention is caught by Scott's hesitation, and they both halt a bare moment. That's to look over at the black Camaro in the distance, and then to look at each other with a wordless surmise in their eyes. Stiles puts his hands out a little way, shrugs. “Could be anybody's,” he says. “There can't only be one black Camaro in Beacon Hills, dude.”

“You sure?” Scott asks, but they've got other things to worry them, the number-plate's at an angle, and it's not a big issue. It's forgotten, and minutes later they're arguing, scuffling and pulling rank to get straight into the small private ward where Stiles' father has been hidden away.

“Oh Christ, I'm never going to be allowed even turkey bacon again, am I,” is the _first_ thing the Sheriff has to say, when he sees them. It's not exactly Lifetime Movie material for the hospital bed scene, but someone's gotta be the stoic here and keep everyone dry-eyed and quipping gags, like dudes, like bros, like _manly men._ Because Melissa is already here, clutching onto his hand as she leans from her chair so she's almost half on the bed and cuddling him, and Melissa's not even _trying_ for stoic. She's red round the eyes and openly tearful, as she calls, “He's fine, he's fine!” at Stiles and Scott as they dive in the door, and, “You can bet on it, buddy. It's tofu and beansprouts as a _treat_ , from now on,” back at John Stilinski.


	5. every day is lost on which we have not danced at least once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles' Dad has a bullet in him. Stiles and Scott have run to the rescue.
> 
> And Derek is there before them. Wh'appen?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is Nietzsche, or a mangling thereof.

But first. _Before_ that.

At the hospital, he's still nervy, because who wouldn't be? But they locate his Dad's private room damn quick, helped by all the nurses who know him either from being brought in from kelpie maulings, or in his capacity as the Sheriff's (other) deputy. They run into Millie, Scott's mom's buddy, as they dash through the concourse, and she grabs at Stiles' arm on her way to another patient. “He's _fine_ ,” she calls out, evidently totally clued-up, and pats Scott on the back as she goes by.

It helps a lot. Stiles calms down, the threatening imminence of a panic attack backed right the fuck off, and they find the right ward in a calmly threatening state of mind. (Choc-chip! _Sprinkles_!) Jeez. It isn't as if it's the first time his dad has suffered a booboo on the job.

Then they reach the door of Stiles' dad's private room, and push it open. And Stiles nearly has a panic attack, all over again.

“It's _you_! What are _you_ doing here? Dad! Is he hurt worse than they told me? Have they been lying to me? Parrish, that asshole. Dad, are you okay?” Because, why the hell would _Derek_ be here before Stiles –- why would Derek be here at _all_ –- if not because it's a whole hell of a lot worse than they've been told?

It's the presence of Derek that's freaking Stiles out, and what the hell is he doing here anyway? Sitting on the other side of his Dad's bed from Melissa, one hand on the bed, leaning back in the easy-chair and looking... concerned, and yet relaxed. The asshole. When did he get all _mature,_ anyhow?

(And wearing a baggy blue t-shirt, with some hospital charity logo on it. He looks like a liberal arts grad student in it, someone who attends consciousness-raising meetings for allies, planning on an MFA and applying to Iowa and Clarion West. Where the hell is his _jacket_? If Derek is going to stop wearing tight black leather, then surely the end times are upon them.)

“Stiles,” his Dad says, in a soothing voice, beckoning for him to come close, and dragging him to perch his ass on the side of the bed once he does. Scott follows on close behind. “I'm fine. _Fine_. Flesh wound and a chip to my thigh-bone, that's all. They're only insisting on hospitalizing me because it's standard procedure for an officer of the law, wounded in the course of duty. C'mere, give your old man a hug now.”

Manly hugs abound, and Scott gets in on the action. But Stiles is still stressed and distracted. He looks suspiciously at Derek, over his Dad's comforting shoulder. Those wide innocent baby blues -- blue-hazels -- stare back at him, eyebrows up. “What are you doing here, anyway, Derek?” he asks, pulling away from his Dad. “And how the hell did you get here before me? How did you even hear my Dad was _hurt_?”

Reasonable, pertinent questions, and Derek doesn't answer any of them. He just stands up and stretches, slow, easy and highly distracting. (Even now. Even after all these years. Christ, he might as well be Danny, averting his eyes and faintly blushing.) “I was in the area,” he says, like he just _couldn't make it any vaguer_ despite his best attempts. "Sheriff, I hope you're feeling better soon, sir.” And with that said, he ambles out of the room. If he had a ten gallon hat on he'd tip it at Melissa, then the Sheriff and Scott and Stiles, probably. It's the best James Stewart impression Stiles has seen, at least since his Dad's.

Stiles watches his exit open-mouthed. And then turns on his Dad, outraged. “And since _when_ have you been best buds with _Derek Hale?_ ” he asks, accusingly. “Or maybe you're just going to _adopt_ him, since he's here all like, like your welfare is his highest concern, right?” He's expostulating, now, hands aloft. He knows it, but the relief of his Dad being basically okay is too great to rein it in.


	6. we're addicted to music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sheriff is a terrible hospital patient. Stiles isn't much better as a visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is Chuck Palahniuk.

"Yeah, now you mention it, maybe I will,” the Sheriff agrees smugly. “Derek brought me doughnuts. Better than grapes, any day. And I notice you didn't even bring any of _those_.” He looks disparagingly down at Stiles' empty hands.

Doughnuts! Junk food! Curly fries! That sets Stiles off on another train of thought. Hug-time is _over_. “Yeah,” he begins, “and just so you know, Parrish is a rat who's given me the whole story, about you and the ice-cream parlor. Come on now, 'fess up, how many cones did you scarf down before some local do-gooder managed to bring you down with a bullet in the calf? That was a mercy shooting if anything ever was. Come on, Dad, you'll feel better if you just give me it straight...”

xxx

The Sheriff is in the hospital longer than expected. The chip off his thigh bone has gone straying into the muscle, the doctors explain, and while still not serious, it's enough to merit a week's bed rest and treatment. Which means nightly visits to the hospital, for Stiles, and often Scott, and sometimes getting there during the day too, as the increased workload at the Sheriff's office allows.

It's fine. He loves his Dad. He loves turning up at his bedside with a nice healthy tempeh and beansprout sandwich, and taking away the soggy hospital roast beef and gravy. Tugging it out of his hands if necessary, and making full use of the unfair advantage of his Dad having a bullet in one leg and a chunk out of the bone in the other.

Never mind that, though. That isn't what's bothering Stiles. It's the company –- to be specific, it's _Derek_.

“Dad, why the hell is he always here _anyway_?” he humphs, on the Wednesday evening, just him and his Dad in the private room. After the previous two visits, in which Derek has been littering up the place and doing crossword puzzles with his Dad, regaling him with supernatural gossip.

And he has to repeat it, because his Dad has the headphones attached to the wall fixture on, plugging him into the hospital radio station. Then he repeats it again, lifting up one of the ear-muffs and talking into the Sheriff's ear. _That_ gets his attention, all right.

“Hmm?” the Sheriff says, adjusting the rotor on the bed to sit up a bit. “Oh, he's not doing any harm, Stiles. He's a good boy. Why _shouldn't_ he come and visit me? Scott's been by, and Jackson and Lydia, Erica, you don't complain about _them_. Isn't Derek part of the pack too? Just like they are?”

Stiles gawks at him. A _good boy?_ Has the Sheriff had a personality transplant, along with his bone-setting and chip-adjusting? “Since when are you and Derek best buds, Dad? Do you not remember a little incident of _taking him into custody_ and _accusing him of manslaughter_? And being a bad supernatural influence on your nice co-valedictorian kid, into the bargain?”

“Oh, that,” the Sheriff says, shrugging. “That's a long time past, Stiles. If we've moved on, me and Derek both, don't you think that you can too?”

And he snaps back the muff of his earphones, to carry on listening to the hospital radio station. While Stiles is right there in the room, visiting. _Rude_.

What the hell can be so fascinating about hospital radio, anyway? Isn't it all cheesy 70s soft rock and birthday requests?


	7. come on baby, come on over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has totally cool, informed, down-with-it musical taste.
> 
> Unless you check his secret Spotify mixes, that is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is Mr Big, 'To Be With You'.

Next time he goes, he just manages to avoid Derek's visit, it seems. (Although he's left behind a package of M&Ms cookies, family size, which Stiles promptly confiscates, doling them out one by one per visit. _Derek_ , he thinks. Ass-kisser, Sheriff's pet, _enabler_.)

And ten minutes in, the Sheriff does it again. Hands Stiles the newspaper –- they're only three clues off finishing the puzzle –- and says, “There's just something I want to listen to, okay?”

It's not any the less rude for seeking understanding first, right? And after silently fuming for a moment or two, Stiles pokes the Sheriff in the arm. (He's never going to get those clues anyway. Really, they have to do the cryptic crossword instead of the quickie? WTF? He's co-valedictorian, not Stephen frigging Hawking.)

And his Dad sighs, but complies, lifting up the ear muff for Stiles' words of wisdom and enlightenment. “What the heck is it that you're listening to, anyhow?” Stiles asks, frustrated. “What's so great that you can't spare your devoted son and only visitor _five minutes'_ attention?”

And his Dad looks like he's considering something. Like he's revealing a trade secret, or the code to the vault. He visibly wavers for a moment. And then admits, “It's the hospital radio station's evening show. You want a quick listen?” He beckons for Stiles to lean in, to borrow one half of the earphones.

Ear-muff pressed to his ear, Stiles listens in. “...and that was Cyndi Lauper's ' _Time After Time'_ , a truly timeless classic I think you'll find! Next up for Mrs Adrienne Laczki in Ward 4, the beautiful Eva Cassidy version of the same song, followed by Soul Asylum's ' _Runaway Train._..”

Stiles has heard enough. He's an up-town, up-tempo cutting-edge indie warrior kind of a guy. And this is definitely a downtown, down-tempo cheesy sweet soul, soft rock kind of a station. He flips the ear phones back over his Dad's ears, and shakes his head. “What the hell? You may be an old dude, but at least you normally have taste, in an old-dude kind of way. All of your old vinyl, the Billie Holliday and John Coltrane. What's _this_?”

And his Dad shrugs. “It's a love-songs only show, weekday evenings. 'Love songs to mend broken hearts and other parts' they say on the jingle. Sue me, I like it.”

Jeez. Stiles has _got_ to get his Dad out of here.

xxx

Except, the next evening, the young doctor on duty comes and says one of his Dad's tests has had the results mixed up, and it has to be re-done, stat. His Dad is hauled off –- grabbing pitifully at a cookie that Stiles withholds as he goes. Erica and the twins have been in, but they're gone now. And after five minutes, Stiles is restless, bouncing with energy, and bored with the newspaper, the internet and the view of the red-brick next hospital block, out the window.

So he throws himself across his Dad's hospital bed, grabs the earphones off the wall and flicks the switch, and settles in. “Lucky people –- well, fairly lucky –- I have a treat coming up for you!” the deejay announces. He has a nice voice, Stiles thinks. Soft, dark, deep like a river. “Coming up –- it's Mr Big, with ' _To Be With You'_. One of my favorites, and I'm sure it's one of yours too...”

And that's it, Stiles is hooked. Because –- and you can't tell _anyone_ this, _he_ can't tell anyone this, even _Scott_ doesn't know this, for Pete's sake –- he _loves_ Mr Big. He loves, especially, ' _To Be With You'_. So did his Mom, he remembers that. Maybe that's where it comes from.

For this moment, he loves this deejay, too.

Many's the evening, during the peak of his infatuation with Lydia, that he spent twenty minutes in his bedroom singing into the mirror, lighter aloft ' _Come on baby come on over, Let me be the one to show you, I'm the one who wants to be with you..._ ' 

Damn. That deej is a sly magician. With a nice voice. The voice is a little familiar, deep but soft, sweet.

Yeah, he's hooked.


	8. I'm the one who wants to be with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is developing a soft-rockin' hair-metal obsession. Well, it beats obsessing about Derek's weird behaviour. Doesn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Mr Big's 'To Be With You'.

By the Friday, he's got his Dad to send in a request for him. Yeah, he's manned up and admitted his covert musical tastes to his Dad. There's not much to hide, considering his Dad's already a fan of this guy, and this show.

Not only that, but his Dad's got the others into the show, too. Jackson puts a request in for Jonathan Richman's _'Lydia_ '. And, considering their on/off thing is currently off, it may just have been the trigger that flips the balance, because when they say goodnight to the Sheriff and head off into the night, they do it with Jackson's arm around Lydia. _'I saw this beautiful girl today, And yes she took my heart away, My old Lydia, oh Lydia...'_

It doesn't cause Stiles any twinges. He's definitely over it now, enough that he's heart-glad for them, in fact. (Even if Jackson is never going to be quite good enough for a strawberry-blonde princess, not to him. But if Lydia's happy, _that's_ good enough.)

It's the truth. Even though Derek, leaning with his elbows on the bed-covers and arguing over a geographical clue with the Sheriff, casts a glance his way with one eyebrow quirked up. It's a 'you okay?' kind of look, and it makes Stiles bristle. They are definitely not on ' _you-okay?'-look_ kind of terms.

Stiles prefers to keep more distance than that. If he's going to pine, then he'll pine from _afar_. He's learnt that much, from the years of Lydia-centric obsession.

Or he _would_ pine from afar, if Derek didn't keep inconveniently turning up in his Dad's sickroom. Stile supposes that he can't very well bar visiting hours to wolves –- too speciesist, and what about Scott, anyway?

Derek still seems strangely content. He seems _weird_ , even for Derek –- weirdly benevolent, weirdly relaxed. Probably he _is_ getting some, and Stiles represses the twinge the thought causes him, hard.

“Did L.L. play your request tonight, Stiles?” Malia asks, from where she's braiding Allison's hair and eating the Sheriff's grapes. That's how they're referring to the anonymous deejay on the radio show. He barely refers to himself at all –- prefers to let the music speak. But sometimes describes himself as the Love Lover, _LL-DJ._ Which causes half of them to squeal and groan, and the rest to just look profoundly blank. And then happy, at the next dose of unspeakably cheesy classic soft rock or sweet soul music.

“Nope,” Stiles says, disappointed. “Maybe tomorrow.”


	9. I'll be your dream, I'll be your wish, I'll be your fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'The unhappiest people I know, romantically speaking, are the ones who like pop music the most; and I don't know whether pop music has caused this unhappiness, but I do know that they've been listening to the sad songs longer than they've been living the unhappy lives.' -- Nick Hornby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Savage Garden's 'Truly, Madly, Deeply'.

"What song did you ask for, Stiles?” Derek asks. He's leaning deeper into the bed, and he's not paying attention to the Sheriff and his puzzle, anymore. Poor Stiles' Dad: his sickroom has become the social center of the Beacon Hills pack, and it seems like half of them have forgotten the reason they're there in the evenings any more at all.

If Stiles mumbles, he has good reason. He may have 'fessed up to some of his most unspeakable musical tastes to his Dad. But there are limits, just the same. Certainly with anyone not related to him by blood, and thereby compelled to put up with him with a strictly limited amount of mockery.

He does answer, because he was brought up right, and anyway it's hard to say _no_ to Derek. Well, it's hard for _him_ to say no to Derek. (And a lot of his cherished secret scenarios are based around this very issue.) But he mumbles it so low that not even someone with wolf hearing could hear the words.

“What?” Derek asks, bright-eyed, intent upon him. It attracts the attention of the rest of them, the assholes. Even his Dad is watching him, smirking slightly on his bed. He put the request in to the show for Stiles, in a sealed envelope, under pain of death and a doughnut ban not to open it.

Stiles hopes he didn't open it. But the Sheriff is a Stilinski, after all.

xxx

The song that Stiles has requested is Savage Garden, 'Truly Madly Deeply'. See, you see why he wasn't eager to confess it?

The Sheriff is kept in beyond his expected leaving date, on into the weekend, because someone has fucked up his bloods results and also his dressing has been wrongly applied and his wound is healing too slowly. (Stiles is beginning to suspect that Melissa is paying off her buddies to deliberately fuck up his treatment just a little bit, to keep him around and under her eye a bit longer. He isn't sure if she's hot for his Dad, or just misses having someone to mother who belongs to her, now Scott's moved out. But it's not like his Dad seems to resent her maternal touch.)

So there's still Friday evening, and Saturday afternoon (pack meeting called early, finished early for lack of business) and Sunday evening, to visit. Derek's around on the Friday, stops by according to his Dad on the Saturday evening. But Stiles has stopped observing him for little signs of perky happiness and 'taken' status. It's not going to do him any good, obsessing like that, all right? Maybe Scott was right, and he's jealous.

Well, he's jealous, so what. What good does that do him, even thinking about it? He thinks about other things, like the stupid hospital radio show, and its mystery volunteer deejay. And his nice voice, soft and dark and deep and... Yeah, that's better, develop a crush on a mystery stranger with excellently terrible musical taste. Someone he's never going to meet, who'll never bash his face into a steering wheel and save his life multiple times and get himself into idiotic life-threatening situations about six times a month. From which Stiles –- or at least, Stiles plus multiple other plucky venturesome young supernatural investigators –- have to rescue him, at _considerable_ risk to their own life and limb.


	10. when the stars are shining brightly in the velvet sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music is a _dangerous weapon._ In the wrong hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Savage Garden's 'Truly Madly Deeply'.

At the Saturday pack meeting, Derek is on time for once –- well, in comparison to his time-keeping of late, at least. He claims the seat on the couch next to Stiles, which isn't unusual. (Less because it's next to Stiles, and more that it's _his place,_ his territory. He might as well be Sheldon Cooper, and the rest of them a bunch of super-nerds hunting monsters, instead of a solution to missing dark matter, and a unified theory of everything. Really, in a lot of ways Derek is very like Sheldon. He likes sameness, and predictability, and the things that belong to him. His place, his home, his pack. That's why he likes _them_ , as far as he does, Stiles thinks morosely. Not for themselves. Just because they're _his_ , and he's accustomed to them by now. That's why he likes Stiles, or at least accepts him into his life. He's furniture. Stiles is a fucking _throw cushion,_ he is, to Derek.)

He's busy morosely dreaming and philosophizing this way, the boy psychoanalyst, while Lydia announces her results on the leaning on Mafioso leprechauns, and the nasty bitey Fae thing going on a city over. She bashes Scott over the head with a rolled-up paper when he points out that her nickname used to be Tinkerbell, and she insisted on dressing as a fairy every day through sixth grade.

A drift of notes, notes of music, is all that lures and coaxes Stiles back into awareness of his surroundings, beyond the dark miserable inside of his head and the hot pleasant pressure up against his thigh. Which he has resolutely not been thinking about. Though God knows he's had plenty of practice at not popping a stiffy around Derek, at this point.

But there's that drift of notes that's like a ladder, and his mind takes the first step, and then there's Danny sitting across from them who joins in. It's pushing for access into his unconscious mind, and he only realizes it when Derek –- of course, it's Derek, up so close, how would he have heard if it hadn't been _Derek_ , it's not as if he's a wolf with wolf senses –- actually begins to sing.

(To _sing_. Fucking hell.)

' _Come on baby! come on over! Let me be the one to show you, I'm the one who wants to be with you_...' he sings, so soft and delicate at first, but a little louder and less covert, more confident, as he hits the payoff, the hook. He's leant back against the back of the sofa, his handsome head lolling. That would be okay, except that his head is twisted a little toward Stiles, where they're sitting up against each other. He's basically singing to Stiles. _At_ Stiles.

Serenading him, you could say. If Stiles was on a balcony, and dressed like a fourteen-year-old maiden from Verona...

(He thinks, out of the corner of his eye, that he can see that Derek is smiling. New, happy, ghost-free Derek. It's freaking Stiles the fuck out.)

Lydia harmonizes almost unconsciously as she wraps up the itinerary for the next week, her fiery curls bobbing as she keeps time. Allison and Malia are leaned up against the bookcase and swaying, eyes closed. If someone gets a lighter out and starts waving their arms in the air, if there were any band t-shirts in the vicinity, this would actually be a soft-rockin' concert circa 1992.

“Last night tonight, Stiles!” Malia says, where she's climbing onto the beanbag Derek's mother dragged out of the Sixties, and grins at him. “Your Dad's out tonight, right?” Because they're all busy pretending that there's no weird supernatural musical crooning/serenading situation going on, here.


End file.
